


surveiller et punir

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Pre-Series, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: Hannibal shares a long-held fantasy with his psychiatrist.





	surveiller et punir

“You seem very reticent this afternoon, Hannibal. Usually silences do not outnumber speech between us.”

“The subject that preoccupies me is of a delicate nature.”

Bedelia leans forward a subtle fraction and arches a perfectly plucked brow, a sign he has roused her insatiable curiosity. “Too delicate to speak of with your therapist?”

Silence seeps into the space between them again like a miasma as he debates whether or not to share this part of himself. For once it is not the monster behind the person suit he wishes to keep veiled from her, but something more raw and human and fragile. “I had a sexual experience last week that left me feeling very disappointed.”

There is a minute blink of surprise in Bedelia’s eyes; whatever dark secret she was expecting him to confess it wasn’t that. “Disappointing in what way?”

He feels unexpected warmth creep up from his collar. “I gave life to a fantasy I had harbored for quite some time…since my youth in fact. The reality of the act did not live up to expectations. And now I simply feel…confused…about myself.”

“And sad,” Bedelia says.

“And sad,” he echoes, acknowledging her observation. “I regret acting it out. Perhaps it should have remained a fantasy.”

“A desire you have harbored since youth,” she muses. “That is a very long time to build up expectations, Hannibal. What made you wish to act out this forbidden fantasy now?”

“A desire to try something new. To learn more about myself. Knowledge is power—wouldn’t you agree?”

Bedelia nods and says no more. He admires her delicacy, her restraint. No doubt she is itching for him to name it, to hear what could possibly be so kinky as to leave him blushing beneath his person suit. But to her credit, she does not. It is her gentleness, her patience that outwaits his own, that always undoes him.

“I hired a woman…a professional…to spank me,” he confesses. “It was not what I had hoped for.”

Her gaze is smooth, impenetrable, her visage as glassy as a mountain lake. “What were you hoping for?”

He looks away, at the winter sunlight palely streaming through her lace curtains and the snowy garden beyond. The landscape allows him to slip the veil of time, back to his childhood when this all began. “There was a matron in the boys’ orphanage where I was sent after my parents died. She was rather young…late twenties perhaps…and quite pretty, with long wheat blonde hair she kept pulled back tightly into a bun. She also had a reputation for being very strict.”

“And this woman, this young matron, held a certain fascination for you?” Bedelia asks, voice cool and even. Did she have any idea what that voice did to him?

“It might surprise you to learn I was a very well-behaved pupil. I followed the rules to the letter; the more I behaved, the more privileges I was given. I became jealous, though, of the boys who received matron’s special attentions. One night when she was on duty, I got caught sneaking outdoors after hours.”

“You got caught on purpose so she would punish you,” Bedelia says neutrally.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, feeling the blush bloom hot in his cheeks, as full and lush as rose. “She caught me and took me over her knee; other adults used switches or paddles, but matron preferred to use her hands. I cannot say I enjoyed the pain, exactly…but I felt close to her in that moment.” He could still recall the feel of her rough wool skirt against his cheek, the industrial smell of bleach that clung to her uniform and stung his nostrils.

“Did her punishment arouse you?” Bedelia asks, maddeningly calm.

“In the moment, no. But later, I dreamt of her…again and again. Wet dreams, as you Americans call them. My first.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve or thirteen.”

“Ripe for a sexual awakening. No wonder this woman had such a profound hold on your imagination.”

“It should have remained in the realm of imagination. This time…I felt nothing.” He had acquired little for his efforts except a sore bottom and a lightened wallet.

Bedelia tsks at him quietly under her breath. She tilts her head, her tell for when he is failing to grasp the exceedingly obvious. “You said you hired a professional. A specialist in erotic discipline.”

“A dominatrix, yes.”

“You pined over your young matron, Hannibal. You longed for her attention, no matter how cruel. Your recent encounter lacked the emotional connection that made your fantasy so powerful. Frankly, I am surprised you chose a stranger—surely there is someone among your roster of lovers who would be willing to indulge you.”

He smiles wistfully—he hears the note of jealousy in her voice, even if Bedelia does not. Roster of lovers, indeed.

“But then again, perhaps you were unwilling to let yourself be seen in this way, by someone who you might see again.” Her eyes burn as she speaks, her insight as cutting as a razor’s edge—it makes his heart bleed.

He turns his full gaze upon her and draws back his veil, far enough to reveal his own naked longing. “There is someone who would be perfect,” he says carefully. “But she does not number among my lovers. And she is not given to indulging me. Or herself.”

Bedelia’s lips part slightly, a silent gasp of surprise. His words have drained the color from her face and snuffed out the fire in her eyes. The clock in the hall chimes five, marking the end of their session, but Bedelia does not dismiss him. Instead, she rises from her seat and crosses to the bar cart in the corner. She pours herself a scotch with just a breath of soda, and sips it, back turned to him. She does not offer him a drink. The spicy, floral tang of her arousal hangs in the air, a top note caressing the peaty aroma of the whisky.

She returns, coolly tossing her hair over her shoulder before setting her drink on the glass coffee table with an icy plink. “We have ended our session, Hannibal, and you are free to leave. I am unable to indulge you in this matter as your psychiatrist…but I am willing to do so as your friend. Do you understand?”

His flush deepens. Somehow his perfectly tailored collar grows tighter and he must resist the urge to adjust his tie. Truly, he did not expect Bedelia to pick up the gauntlet he had thrown down. Her ability to surprise him was one of the many things he adored about her. “I understand,” he says at last.

“Take off your jacket,” she says, taking a casual sip of scotch.

He does as she requests, standing and carefully draping his blue and grey tweed over the back of his chair. His cock twitches at the ring of command in her voice; already he is certain this will prove to be a very different encounter than the one he experienced last week.

Bedelia looks him up and down approvingly, blue gaze lingering on the outline of his pectorals through his white dress shirt. She caresses him with her eyes, always observing never participating, until perhaps today. “Do you still wish to be punished?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says in a breathy yelp.

“What for? What have you done, Hannibal?”

Despite her assurance she is acting as a friend and not a therapist, Bedelia’s question prods at his human veil. Their conversational ground is one of quicksand. It is a loaded question, masking a hidden anger toward him. She  _wants_  to punish him, he realizes, and suddenly he knows his answer. “I referred a violent patient to you. It was inexcusable.”

Bedelia’s grip tightens imperceptibly on her glass and her eyes turn flinty and cold; she does not believe him, does not forgive him. Her anger about the disruption Neal Frank caused in her well-ordered life still burns hot.

“Very well,” she says. “Pull down your trousers and come here.”

His fingers move of their own accord to unbuckle his trousers and unzip his fly. Rational thought has altogether deserted him, driven as he is by an instinct more primal than any bloodlust he ever experienced as the Ripper. His trousers hit Bedelia’s carpet with a soft thud and he positions himself at her side, obvious erection showing through his silk boxer shorts. She pats the fine teal wool of her skirt in a gesture that is both sinister and inviting and he kneels next to her, draping his torso over her small lap, rump thrust into the air. The position is a bit awkward; he does not feel small as he did when he laid across matron’s knee, but he does feel close to Bedelia, closer than she has ever allowed him to be. Close enough that he can smell her arousal even more keenly; his cock hardens further in response, brushing against her through layers of silk and wool. He bites back a groan.

“Your punishment should not be so pleasurable, Hannibal,” Bedelia says, teasing lilt in her voice. He can feel her sharp nails dig in underneath the waistband of his shorts, scratching against his skin. Slowly, she peels back the silk, exposing his naked bottom to the air. He’s both aroused and embarrassed; it’s more than he ever dreamed.

“How would you like me to do this? Should I use your belt? A book?”

“Your hands,” Hannibal gasps, squirming in her lap.

“As your young matron did.” She begins to run her palm lightly over the cheeks of his ass, sweet and gentle, torturing him with anticipation. “And how many swats did matron give you, do you remember?”

“Ten,” he says, arching up shamelessly to meet her touch. As if he could ever forget.

“Well, you are a grown man now, Hannibal. Ten is a boy’s punishment—I fear I shall have to make it twenty.”

Before he can react to his punishment, Bedelia’s hand lands squarely on his right cheek with a resounding smack.  _Hard._

“One,” he gasps.

“Yes, you will have to keep count for me. If you forget, we will have to start all over again.”

Two, three, four blows land on his ass in quick succession. They sting. There is such force in Bedelia’s petite frame, and it is clear to him she is holding nothing back; it pleases him beyond measure. She slows down, drawing it out, each meeting of skin on skin a slap and a caress at once. He is so hard his erection is becoming painful and he can feel a damp spot forming on the front of his shorts. He knows without being told that he will find no release, and that perhaps is his true punishment.

She spanks him with increasing force, deliberately causing her blows to land against the skin that is already angry and red. The twelfth blow is so hard he yelps, unable to control himself, banging his leg against Bedelia’s glass coffee table.

“Careful, Hannibal. Try to restrain yourself and avoid spilling my scotch.”

All he can do is moan into her lap.

Somewhere north of number fifteen, he leaves off counting in English and switches to Lithuanian. Bedelia does not seem to mind.

At the seventeenth swat, he cries.

After the eighteenth, he calls in Lithuanian for his mother, as he had done on that evening nearly forty years ago. He promises to be good.

At the twentieth and final blow, he comes, grinding himself against her thigh in a mess of tears and sweat and seed.

He stays there, face pressed against her lap, unable to move. Bedelia is silent, but combs gently through his sweat-streaked hair, comforting him in a way matron never had. Her arousal is musky and overpowering, the rarest perfume. He has sensed her predilection for dominance—it was what had caused him to send Neal Frank to her. But he had not known the depth of it, the extent of her own need. Suddenly, he must have her, is desperate to taste her. He nuzzles her lap, rubbing his cheek at the junction of her thighs, attempting to part her knees with his hands.

Her legs remain stubbornly closed. “You can stand up now, Hannibal. We’re finished.”

“But…I want to…let me please you, to make up for how I hurt you,” he pleads.

Bedelia looks down at him, imperious and hawk-like. “Such an act would be a reward to you, Hannibal, not a punishment.” A dry, brittle smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “And besides, I am not given to indulging myself, as you have said.”

Her rejection stings, far more than any of the marks on his backside. He will delight in inspecting them later; Bedelia’s small red hand print impressed upon his flesh, a badge of honor. He rises from the floor and does up his trousers, covering the wet spot on the front with his suit jacket.

“So, you see, your instincts about yourself were correct after all,” Bedelia says lightly. But there is a deep flush in her cheeks, her pupils are dark and wide with arousal. She may not indulge herself today, but she will.

“I believe we both learned a great deal about ourselves today. Thank you for the lesson, Dr. Du Maurier. I shall never forget it.”

“Next Thursday then,” she says, hand toying coquettishly with her hair.

Hannibal takes his leave of her, smiling to himself all the way home. He is eager to revisit this scene in his memory palace. He knows that when he dreams tonight, it will no longer be of the distant young matron, but of Bedelia. He wonders if she will dream, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is in reference to Foucault's Discipline & Punish, which in the French translates closer to "surveillance and punishment." I'm probably going to go to some kind of special academic jail for this.


End file.
